


#WhatsYourGoal: Help Me

by YeahScience



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Anorexia, Disturbing Themes, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Stuffing, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeahScience/pseuds/YeahScience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The #WhatsYourGoal movement brought deserving fans together with their favorite players. </p><p>Here, Corey shares a meal with an anorexic girl who hopes that he can help her feel less... alone. </p><p>PLEASE READ THE NOTES.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Milkshake Girl

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Eating disorder and self-harm triggers. 
> 
> This work is very personal. I have struggled with anorexia nervosa for several years and the scene you are about to read is based on an actual feeding I had to endure. That night has haunted me for years, and I’m hoping that returning to it and writing about it can help me move forward. Please keep this in mind when commenting. This is not meant to be a comedy; it’s a self-insert that I wrote for myself, and didn’t want to post, but decided to in case it helps other people. 
> 
> The stigma against mental illness leads some to believe that sufferers chose their illnesses or should "just get over it." I hope this work can help change their minds. As real as any malignant tumor, mental illness shake families to their cores and destroy relationships and lives in the process. What we need is exposure: to show the world what we struggle with every day and continue to be ostracized for. If we can eliminate the ignorance, the stigma will follow suit.

I remember when Coach pulled me aside to show me the video.

“Crow,” he said. There was a seriousness, a solemnity in his voice that I rarely heard. I wondered if someone had died. The air became cold and clammy, like when you’re on the ice with just a t-shirt.

He led me into his office and had me sit in a chair. Q cleared his throat, then pulled out an iPad. The walls seemed to swallow all the sound; my heartbeat was strong in my ears. Q tapped a few times on the screen, then set it on the desk and spun it so that I could see. 

A video was buffering. Then the pixels ignited into shades of red, pink, and beige. In fuzzy detail was a girl in my jersey, sitting on her bed. Face flushed, eyes sunken, cheekbones high and pronounced. She was swimming in the bloody velvet of the jersey. Now my mind began to race. Coach, what the hell is this?

He must’ve sensed my confusion. “Remember a few weeks ago, when Shawzy and Tazer helped a Girl Scout sell cookies?” I nodded in silence. “We have a job for you today.” His icy eyes slid back to the screen, so I followed. 

The girl began to speak in a voice hoarse and high. “Hello, Blackhawks. My name is Dani, and my goal is to drink a milkshake with Corey Crawford.” My brows found themselves in a tight knot. At this point, my mind stopped reeling and hit a wall of complete confusion. 

Dani laughed at my perplexity. “I know, kind of weird, right?” She pulled her knobby knees into her chest. “But I’m an anorexic, and my treatment team has put me on a rapid weight gain diet. If it doesn’t work, I’m going to the hospital. Odds are, I won’t leave for a very long time.” Tears came to her eyes, and a few to mine as well. “Every night, I have to drink a high calorie weight gain milkshake. Sometimes, this lasts for three hours and I scream until I literally cannot form words anymore.” Shame crept up in her face and painted it pink. “My parents have tried everything to make it better. This is kind of our last option, and it’s a strange one!” A bitter laugh.

Q caught my eye. This is so not funny, not at all. “Mr. Crawford, I’d like you to come to my house and drink a shake with me. I mean, you’re a hockey player, you can handle a 3000 calorie-a-day diet?” She chuckled, wrung her hands, wiped a tear, and stared into her webcam and right into my eyes. We froze. “It’s just me and my parents against this disease, and right now I’m losing. But you’re a Blackhawk; it’s your job to win. So please: help me.” She choked a little, and it sounded like “Go Hawks,” leaning forward as the video halted with a click. 

Q and I sat together, waiting for the other to say something. If this was a joke, it was a very sick one. This girl was clearly very ill, and if Q was making fun of it…

He wasn’t. “Corey, we think you should go.” Breath hitched in my throat: not from protest, more of a realization. “This girl needs our help. Cameras or no cameras, you need to go visit her.”

“Coach,” I began with hazard teeming in my tone. “This girl is clearly very ill, I don’t think I’m going to make a difference. She needs a lot more than a pat on the back from her favorite goaltender-“

“It’s not just a pat on the back,” Coach sighed. “It’s so much more than that. It’s the feeling that she’s not alone, that there is hope for her. That people care, ya know? I mean, for Christ’s sake, look at her! You going to deny her the help she needs?”

“I’m not the help she needs,” my voice grew with anger. “Coach, you can’t make me do this. She needs to be in a hospital!”

“That’s exactly what she doesn’t need!” Coach replied, borderline furious. “You know what happens if she goes to a hospital? She spends 12 hours a day hooked up to a feeding tube like a sick animal, never seeing her friends, who are too afraid of her to step out of their comfort zones and be there when she needs them the most!”

“And what happens if I fail? I’m a goalie, not Goddamned Dr. Phil!”

“You are her last hope!” Q bellowed, standing up so fast his chair tipped over and clanged on the cold, hard floor. It reverberated in a tense silence. “Nobody expects you to cure her. Just…” He trailed off and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Just give a very sick girl a chance. Neither she nor I would’ve approached you if we didn’t believe you could make a difference. Please, just do it.”


	2. A Talk With Toews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toews comforts a distressed Corey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break down a long, one-chapter story into several small parts. Updates will come at least every few days, if not more often.
> 
> Thank you so much for the support. It means a lot, and it is certainly reciprocated!
> 
> Today is Eating Recovery Day. Take some time to celebrate those staying strong in the fight against eating disorders: may they some day bask in the warm glow of recovery!
> 
> *hops off soap box*

Corey walked out of the room with his head in a hive of confusion and dread. Unorthodox was the word that came to mind, but it didn’t quite capture Corey’s fear of the situation. When he thought of it in terms of life and death, it wasn’t too far from the truth. At least, in hockey, a couple missed goals mean a bruised ego and dropped stats. When it came to the physical and emotional well being of a fan, however, that was beyond the scope of what the Hawks can do.

“Or should do,” Corey thought. “We’re hockey players, not therapists. I say one wrong thing, she could try to hurt herself. And shouldn’t your last chance be something more… I dunno, likely to help? When I broke my foot, I didn’t ask Beyonce to come sing some kinda healing song to it. Therapy sounds like hell in a handbasket, but isn’t that what you do?”

The dressing room was empty, as everyone had cleared out after practice. Enjoying the quiet yet constant electric hum of the fluorescent bulbs, he curled up in his cubby. His Bauer stick was underneath the bench, and he picked it up to occupy himself as his mind wandered. 

On a single finger he balanced the stick. With the other, he tapped the knob at the end and watched the whole system seesaw back and forth, dangling on the edge of equilibrium. Then he tapped the blade and the stick leaned the other way. It hung right on the side of his finger, as if it was contemplating giving up, but Corey counterbalanced it with his wrist and the stick returned right back to its center. 

Corey hummed to himself: pensive. “I can’t imagine. I mean, I just don’t understand. Starving yourself? Just, why? I can’t even spell it. Anarexia? Anorexea?”

Jonathan had walked in and was standing at the far end of the dressing room, quietly observing his netminder’s intricate stick game. Yes, he knew about the girl. Q had run the idea by him a few days ago. And, to be quite honest, Jonny was just as reserved about it as you might expect. There was so much room for failure: communication, interpretation. He was a guy who liked responsibility. For God’s sake, he was the captain of a Stanley Cup Champion team. When it came to caring for a broken person instead of a broken stick or collarbone, he felt like he was playing with fire. And it wasn’t him who was going to burn.

Jonny cleared his throat and Corey snapped his head up, dropping the stick on the ground with a soft thud. Slowly, he stood up and locked eyes with his captain, who stood stoically. 

“Coach told you?” He murmured. Corey cocked his head.

“You knew?”

A pause as Jonny looked down and shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I knew. Coach ran it by me a few days ago.” Another pause, which he disintegrated with a soft sigh. “Look, part of being a superstar athlete is supporting your fan base. And it’s not about media or public image, it’s about supporting an organization and teaching our players that people matter. Damn, I’m getting all preachy.” He chuckled and rubbed his neck. “But you get what I mean?”

Corey spun his stick around to give himself time to formulate his response. “All kinds of athletes go to hospitals and stuff, you know? But nobody expects us to cure a kid’s cancer. You just go there to make them happy. This whole thing with the girl… I dunno, Tazer, maybe I’m just scared?”

Toews glided over to the bench and sat down next to the netminder, whose shoulders had hunched forward like a kid in a timeout. “And I understand that, really.” He stretched a hand around Corey. “But I think you can only help the situation. Being there for her, regardless of whether or not she gets better, is enough to make a difference in her life. Give yourself a break, Crow. Like you said, nobody expects you to cure her. And you’re lucky!” Toews patted Crawford good-naturedly on his back. “I bet that milkshake will be delicious!”

Crow found the strength to laugh, but stayed in the locker room for a long time after Toews had left.


	3. Day Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angsty Corey anticipates meeting Dani the next day. (If you want, you can skip this chapter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings apply. 
> 
> TBH, this chapter is kinda dabbling filler. I let my mind wander and this is what happened. The next couple chapters are going to be several times longer and more plot driven. We'll finally get to meet Dani and her family. 
> 
> This one got angsty, outta left field. But hey, this is fanfic, is it not?
> 
> J'ai l'idée de traduire cette fanfiction en anglais. Mais c'est juste une possibilité, donc je ne sais pas. 
> 
> Merci pour lire! Soyez sympa, toujours :)

The last game before Winter Break ended up being a close loss to the Red Wings. The Hawks’ defense was tight and the offensive lines made several solid shots on goal, but Corey’s mind was not in the game. It was floating in limbo, because tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, he would make the drive to see Dani, about an hour west of Chicago. 

Each shot on goal caused him to jump and flinch, despite having had thousands thrown at him over the years. As the puck got larger and larger in his field of vision, Corey was flushed with a sense of unpreparedness. He had never felt like this, never before in his life: not even during his first official NHL career. And yet, here he was, completely overwhelmed at the thought of seeing a teenage girl. 

After the final buzzer sounded, Corey glided into the locker room without a word, absent-mindedly bumping his captain’s hand and heading immediately for his cubby. Tazer really had nothing to say, so the entire dressing room was quiet. Everyone knew that the loss fell mainly on their goaltender’s padded shoulders, but everyone also knew what was on his schedule for tomorrow, so they let him off the hook. So far, Toews had been the only one to talk to him about it. Nobody else wanted to talk about it. They’d visited tons of kids with cancer, muscular dystrophy, and cystic fibrosis, things like that, but anorexia? It didn’t seem right. 

The guys would be taking their short holiday break, so they spent a longer-than-usual time in the locker room: packing up all their things. Corey did his packing in the same dazed manner he played the game with. One by one, the Hawks filtered out of the dressing room, sending holiday wishes to each other. Corey was again the last to leave. And he did so reluctantly, finding himself looking over his shoulder at his cubby as though he may never see it again. 

Corey walked out of the United Center into the cold and dry Chicagoan December air. A soft snow was falling, but its whisper was punctuated with the blares of angered drivers. This harsh duality brought a frown to the corners of Crow’s mouth, and he walked to his car with his head down. 

Driving back to his flat, Corey decided to take the long way. The whole ride, he was thinking, “Maybe if I crash, I won’t have to go tomorrow.” But no sooner had the thought come into his mind than he had slammed on his brakes, engaging the ABS, and pulled over to clear it from his mind. Dammit, he’d made a commitment, and he was going to honor it. God knows that girl had been through enough.

Nevertheless, Corey went up to his apartment, quietly shut the door so as not to wake the neighbors, and collapsed onto his couch with a Miller Lite. He hoped, although expected differently, that the beer would take the edge off of a throbbing headache that was forming. Sleep was what he needed, but he knew it would not come until the last hours of the morning, and would be shallow. 

He raised his arm to wipe his forehead with his wrist, and was distracted by the label of the beer bottle. Only 96 calories, it boasted. To Corey, that was nothing. Being a hockey player and all. Hell, even for your average Joe, that was nothing. But Corey thought of Dani. Not of her drinking, not at all, but how such a number could strike such terror into her heart. Cause her to starve herself. 

Wanting to “study” for his meeting (Corey was at a loss for a better word to describe it), he pulled out his phone and opened the email from Q with the attached video file. And then there she was, again. Corey cursed himself for thinking “She’s not that skinny,” and paused to reevaluate he knobby joints, patchy hair, and translucent skin. Even her voice was thin.

A nonchalant google search of “anorexia” brought him to WebMD, where he thumbed through pages of symptoms, risk factors, and mortality rates. The highest of any mental illness. The looming “10%” switched rapidly between providing comfort, that he could dramatically reduce it by helping Dani, or by terrifying him, that he had a baseline 1 in 10 chance of attending her funeral. 

An embarrassed blush reddened his cheeks when he thought of the Ice Crew. That probably didn’t help the situations of girls like Dani. In reality, they were nothing more than Zambonis with boobs. But the alcohol had brought out a philosophical side of Corey, and he thought about life from Dani’s perspective. And it terrified him.

Thumbing through an issue of Sports Illustrated (Kaner had been interviewed in it and jokingly bought a copy for everyone on the team), he counted at least a dozen possible triggers. Ads, pictures, numbers, they just kept adding up. 

Drowsiness came earlier than he had expected, drawing his breath into a dramatic yawn. The car would be coming to pick him up at 9 tomorrow, so he had to get to sleep quick if he wanted a decent night’s rest. He had a feeling he was going to need it. 

Setting the alarm on his watch for 7:00 AM, Corey drained the rest of his drink and let the tendrils of alcohol pull him into a thready sleep.


	4. Phosphorous and Nitrogen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corey meets Dani and her family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the long one that I promised!
> 
> I was extremely self-conscious today, and writing this helped to take my mind off everything. So thank you!

A black SUV was waiting for him. He slid open the back door, stepping awkwardly over the camera cables that snaked around the backseat. Putting his bag on the seat next to him, Corey put on his seatbelt and adjusted his jersey. A team driver was behind the wheel, and the passenger was a cameraman delicately wiping his lens. 

Without looking up from his device, the cameraman begin to mumble orders. “Okay, can you go ahead and take out your iPad? We’re gonna shoot the intro. We sent you a script and a couple pictures to show the audience.” Corey did as he was told and checked his email. Sure enough, there was the email from the media division of the Hawks. He scanned his eyes over the short script, and they paused over the images. 

There was the girl captured in still life, one three-hundredth of her life. She was spread out on a leather couch, wearing her (his, #50) jersey, black leggings, and slippers. Underneath a Stanley Cup Champions 2013 cap, a waterfall of golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders. Her eyes were a dark brown brought out by the light sparkle of her faint eyeshadow.The smile on her face, the healthy girth of her figure, told Crow that this was before she had gotten sick. To everyone, she looked like your average fan. 

Then he thought back to the video he had watched. Her skin seemed thin and stretched tight over a shrunken complexion and cheekbones that cast shadows over her face. Even her fingers carried an ashy tint that made him feel sick and cold. How long had it taken her to get like this? How long had it taken for her mind and her body to atrophy like this?

Corey merely gave his head a quick shake and looked up to the front seat. The car was pulling out of the parking lot. It was too late now. The cameraman made one final adjustment before turning to the goaltender. He handed him a slender wire with a little microphone attached to it. Corey knew what to do: thread it up underneath his jersey and fasten it to the V-neck. When it was all set, and the mic check was done, it was time to start actually filming the publicity.

“Alright, you comfortable on the script?” The cameraman asked. “It doesn’t have to be exact, just introduce the girl and what you’re doing, the gist of it.” Corey offered a barely noticeable nod and cleared his throat. 

“This is Dani,” he began. The way he talked made his own voice seem like that of a stranger’s to him. It felt as though there was a film over it. “She’s a 15 and a huge Blackhawks fan.” Then he paused. Would she be upset if he called her a “huge” fan? Probably. Corey pursed his lips to show that he was unhappy with that take. Mr. Cameraman just kept filming. 

“This is Dani,” he said, trying to lose the caul that had come over him. “She’s 15 and loves the Blackhawks.” Good so far. “But she’s a-anor-” He choked upon saying the word. It was so ugly, yet so beautiful, that it grabbed onto his teeth and refused to be spoken. Now the camera guy looked out from behind his viewfinder and gave the goalie a strange inquisitive glance. 

‘Get your crap together,’ Crow told himself. He looked down once more at the picture of a healthy Dani, and held it up. “This is Dani. She is 15 years old and she loves the Blackhawks.” A pause (dramatic!). “She suffers from anorexia nervosa, an eating disorder that makes mealtime a daily struggle for her and her family. They have asked her favorite player to help with that struggle. So we’re driving out to their house to have our nighttime snacks together.” And just like that, it was over. Corey tried to convince himself that if he could film this intro, he could handle drinking a milkshake with a teenage girl, but he found no confidence. He had left it in the goalie crease. 

A thumbs up from the cameraman meant that the take was successful, and when he started taking apart his camera and putting it away, Corey took that to mean that he was done filming. So for a moment, he sat in limbo as the car rumbled out of Chicago and onto the expressway. 

“Hey, um,” Corey began. He didn’t know the driver’s name. “When are we gonna get there?”

The driver glanced back as he lane changed. “About an hour. Want some tunes?”

“Nah,” Corey said. He pulled out his earbuds. “iPhone.” The driver and the camera guy began a hushed conversation as Corey put in the earbuds. But he did not put any music on: just sat there listening to the drone of the car’s wheels circulate madly. Each revolution brought his that much closer to meeting the girl and her family, who he realized that he had never seen before. And with each passing metre, his heart climbed higher in his throat. 

Breaking his pensive pause was an unsolicited vibration from his phone. He checked, and was not surprised. It was from Q, and it merely read, ‘Good luck.’ That was to be expected, though, as Coach Q was a man of few words. Corey thumbed out an equally short response: ‘Thanks.’ He did not get a response. 

Several more minutes past, and Corey just stared out the window at his city’s receding skyline. With that image always came a bittersweet melancholia. Hockey players rarely got a day completely off, except for the summer, which was frequently cut into by the Playoffs. Between his time spent on the road and in practice, Corey spent almost no time in the city itself. Despite the blocks around the United Center and a couple around his favorite bars, Chicago was almost like a foreign place to him. And he truly felt like an outsider when he had to take the L and read the map at each stop. He was the goalie for the city’s champion hockey team- Chicago should be imprinted on the back of his hand!

Nevertheless, Corey pined for the town whenever he was traveling. In some ways, it was better than Canada. There were dozens of goalies from Canada. But here, he was the only starting goalie for the Blackhawks. It was his identity, as much as Montréal was his hometown. He always thought back to each of the three Stanley Cup parades. God dammit, if that wasn't the time of his life. The streets were living streets of red, like arteries, pumping from the city’s heart: the United Center. Corey always found that apropos. It was named after the company, yeah, but it did unite people. 

And then his phone buzzed again. This time, it was Shawzy. ‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you bench press her lol’. Crow rolled his eyes. Typical Shawzy, the jokester. He had been ornery the entire season- since Sharpie had gotten traded to the Stars. Those two were inseparable, partners in crime, always sitting together on the plane and at team dinners. It was almost endearing. 

‘I’ll give you 100 bucks if you shove a nastyass sock in your mouth,’ Corey replied, trying to balance witty rapport with the real message that he didn't have a the capacity to joke about his current situation. Would he ever? He guessed that it determined upon how the next few hours would go. Which, actually, were growing very close. 

“About 15 minutes out, Mr. Crawford,” the driver announced loudly. On cue, the camera guy began to unpack his bag and reassemble the contents. Crow turned off his phone and looked back out of the window. 

They were snaking through a neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses in various shades of beige. The lawns were nicely manicured and the trees robust and free from moss. It was hard to believe that such a perfect neighborhood could be hiding such disorder and chaos beneath its glowing skin. The thought made Corey nervous about his own town. What was Chicago hiding from him?

The car began to slow, and Crow’s heart began to race. They were coming to a stop in front of a pale yellow house, your average bungalow looking building dotted with patches of brick. On the right side of the yard, which rippled in an emerald glow, was a towering oak tree with great, thick branches and vibrant olive leaves. It was truly beautiful in deliberate spite of the veritable and hellish tempest that raged within. 

Finally, the car came to a halt and crunched into park. The seat felt like it was attempting to swallow the goalie. Both the front seat faces turned to Crow and looked at him in expectant pity. They were following his lead, waiting for him to open his door. And, after adjusting his mic with a thumbs up from the cameraman, he stepped out onto the crisp lawn. With a beep, the recording device was turned on and began to scrutinize and survey the scene as it played out. 

The front door was a rich eggplant color, with a single half-moon frosted window. Corey could hear the shuffling of people behind the door. He rang the doorbell and it chimed pleasantly, artificially. The door swung open and revealed Dani’s parents. Her mom had hair of burning amber with grey wrinkles forming around her aventurine eyes and subtle mouth. Her dad had shaggy dirty-blond hair that was thinning around its edges, and a face chiseled out of sandstone. 

Neither wore a smile. 

Corey looked back at the camera and tried to appear confident and infallible as he stuck his hand out towards the pair. 

“Hello, I’m Corey,” he announced, and even as he said it he felt stupid. But both the mother and father gave fierce handshakes that left a pleasant ache in Corey’s arm. 

“I can see that,” the dad joked as he indicated the giant 50 on Crow’s arm. Dani’s dad was actually wearing a black Hawks alternate jersey, Toews’s, going by the C emblazoned on the collar. “Nice to meet you, Crow. I’m Harry.” He gestured to his wife. 

“I’m Jennifer,” she almost whispered, offering a little wave. The handshake and her violent hair had betrayed nothing about her; this woman seemed absolutely frail. She put an arm around her husband’s waist and waved the goaltender into the foyer with her other. “Please, come in,” she said almost indistinguishably. 

The house was quite lovely on the inside: slate blue throughout: to the right was a small yet welcoming (ironic?) agrarian dining room table, and to the left a large living room with piercing white furniture. The house had practically been fumigated before Corey’s arrival, as everything was blindingly clean. 

Awkwardly stepping out of the doorway so that the cameraman could enter, Crow looked around for the guest of honor. Or, rather, the host of honor. She was nowhere to be found. Jennifer must have picked up on his confusion, and she piped up in her willowy voice. 

“She’s upstairs, Mr. Crawford,” she squeaked, pointing to a staircase down the hall off of the dining room. “First door on the right.”

Corey nodded, took his shoes off, and walked over. “Thank you,” he murmured graciously. “And call me Corey.” The woman gave a nod as meek as her voice as she led the camera guy, equipment and all, into the living room where she had laid out painstakingly prepared hors d’oeuvres. 

The stairs were wooden and creaked with each step, making Corey feel like an impending doom upon this girl. He paused on the landing halfway up to glance and see if the cameraman was following him. He wasn’t, and figured it was for the best; for some reason, he felt like having the cameras would make this fake. After all, he was doing this for the girl, not the media. All the recordings were just happenstance. 

Hers was the only door that was open, and yet only slightly ajar. A sign written on 8.5 x 11 paper in deliberately messy red pencil read “DANI.” Corey tapped softly on the door and waited for confirmation from the girl. 

“Come in,” she whistled, a filament of her mother. 

The room was seafoam, made even fainter from the light streaming in through a great paned window behind her bed. There were giant posters of every Stanley Cup team photo, intermingled with drawings and poems he guessed Dani had made. Overhead hung a large white ceiling fan with lamps that seemed to slither down and cast their light about the room. Even yet, the room seemed to swallow and consume the girl, who was sitting cross-legged on her pink comforter. 

She too was wearing a red #50 jersey, extra small, and yet still too big for her. Her corn-silk hair had been meticulously brushed and her sunken eyelids sparkled with eye shadow. Yes, she was a very pretty girl, and it broke Corey’s heart. The smile on her face was genuine, but pained. It was the smile of someone saying her final goodbyes. She was meeting Corey, yes, but also knew what it meant. 

“Hi, Dani!” Corey exclaimed, trying to sound enthusiastic. Dani giggled and shifted over on her bed to clear a space for the goaltender. He dwarfed her and the mattress dipped under only his weight. 

“Hello,” she breathed, looking down at her bare feet. But Corey could tell she was not shy in meeting her favorite Blackhawk; no, no, she was acquiescent. Desperately trying to balance elation and dread, which came out as the muted resignation he saw before him now. 

Trying to think of some way to break the tense silence, Corey chirped, “Call me Corey!” She looked up at him with her large globe eyes, and they narrowed into ellipses from the smile that was germinating. Her teeth remained hidden behind the thin line of lip. Dani nodded and the bed bounced. 

“How are you doing today, Dani?” he began. Standard question, he figured. 

“Well,” she responded in a mockingly philosophical voice. “No worse off than usual, so, deeply disturbed and defeated?” Crow gave an awkward laugh and she joined him. Her lungs were small and could only manage small puffs of laughter drowned out by the goaltender’s hearty guffaws. 

Then came another long pause, but it was not awkward. Both of them seemed to consent to it, and let the silence say more than they ever could. After a few moments of racing through possible topics, Corey decided to inquire about the art around the room.

“Did you paint that?” he asked with suppressed amazement, indicating a large canvas next to her closet. The background itself had remained untouched, but extending out from the dead center was a razor-thin spiral that blended effortlessly from vibrant red to the end of the rainbow and then disappeared off of the edge of the canvas. He could not distinguish any individual brushstrokes, and if you told Crow that it was printed by machine, he sure as hell would have believed you.

With the tiniest sliver of content pride, Dani nodded an affirmation. “It’s nice,” he remarked, then revised his statement. It didn’t capture just how amazed he was at the detail, and how the canvas demanded and continued to hold his attention. “Incredible, even. How did you even do that?” He turned to the girl, who wiggled her toes in self-conscious humility.

“A lot of time and Prozac,” she whispered, but it turned into a raspy giggle that Crow joined in with. The giggles grew unprecedentedly until they reached “giggle fit” classification and siphoned tears from the crinkled eyes of the goalie and the girl. By the time the spasm had subdued, the tears had soured from elated to deflated, and she slumped, wilted, into Corey’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! More will come relatively soon (a week?), but expect discrepancies due to upcoming business!
> 
> Stay safe, stay happy, stay healthy. Oh, and it's Mental Health Awareness Month!


	5. Cutting Carbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The feeding begins. Slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended up being shorter, because I was falling behind on my writing schedule and wanted to publish *something.*
> 
> Thanks for your support, and my inbox is always open!

   
From downstairs came her mother’s call. “Hey, um, guys? It’s about time to get started.” Dani immediately tensed, grabbing two fistfuls of Corey’s sweater. He hesitated for a second, then gently laid a hand on her head. She felt so small in his grasp. 

“Dani,” he whispered. She looked up at him with expectant fear. “It’s about time we head down, eh?” Reluctantly, she nodded, and slid off her bed. Corey followed her out of her room and down the stairs. A few times, she paused, and the goalie had to egg her on and encourage her to keep going by giving her a light touch on the shoulder. Eventually, they made their way into the kitchen. Jennifer and Harry were standing behind the island, on which were set out various milkshake ingredients: whole milk, vanilla ice cream, and whipped cream. And two large glasses, each with a thick straw. 

Dani plopped down on a stool, and Corey followed suit. Harry clapped his hands and took a quick inventory of the supplies in front of him, and set himself to putting them into the blender. Jennifer busied herself by making small talk with her daughter and her guest. 

“Can I get you anything?” She asked in a voice scarce above a whisper. Corey smiled good-naturedly and shook his head. A few more moments’ silence, then she spoke again. “We’re very big fans.” This brought a wide smile to Corey’s lips. 

“Really?” He beamed at Dani, who blushed and looked at her hands, which she wrung in her lap. 

“Born and raised,” she shrugged. “My parents and I would always hit pucks back and forth on our driveway during the summer. But I always wanted to be the goalie.” All four laughed.

“Looks like we’ll have to play a pick-up game sometime soon, then,” Corey joked. When Dani bit her lip and gave a sharp shake of her head, he questioned her, “Why not?”

Dani giggled. “Because I can’t skate.” 

Crow feigned utter disbelief. “WHAAA-?!” The two laughed together until tears again perched threateningly on their eyelashes. “How can you be a hockey fan and not be able to skate?” Dani’s face was growing pink from mock embarrassment and genuine hilarity, and Crawford’s heart began to crack. 

Harry turned around from the blender to face Corey. Etched in his tired face was a muted dread that the goaltender could not begin to comprehend. “Alright, we’re going to turn on the blender,” he warned. ‘Why is he acting like that?’ Corey wondered. ‘I mean, it’s just a blender-‘

When the machine roared into life, Dani’s screams completely drowned it out. She sprang forward into Corey’s arms once again, her arms like a vice around his. She shook ferociously and shrieked at the top of her lungs. The goalie even jumped with shock despite himself and hesitated to put his arms around the girl. ‘The screaming, when will it stop?’ he asked himself, staring at the ceiling. The blades of the machine and the blades in the girl’s voice formed a veritable onslaught that ripped Corey into thin shreds. 

As suddenly as it had started, the fit came to a grinding halt alongside the machine. Dani was left whimpering and shivering, but still with a death grip on Corey. Stunned, he wriggled free a hand and used it to absentmindedly pat her tiny head. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Crawford,” Jennifer murmured. Her eyes had begun to water from the stress. 

“Corey,” he whispered back. Dani gulped and pulled away. Her face was bright pink, flushed and washed and damp from the tears. There was a dark patch on Crow’s sweater where she had been laying and crying. Timidly, he gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head and squeezed her shoulders. It seemed like the most natural thing to do… right?

There was a thick, glopping sound as Harry poured the rich drink into the two glasses, so much that the liquid was flush with the rim. Miniscule bubbles were trapped in the shake like in amber. Crow pulled the two glasses over to him and the girl, who shrunk away and pulled her knees into her chest again. 

Dani did not move, and the other three kept giving her occasional side-glances. Something had crept into her eyes, something that made them gleam with white hatred, disgust. Her mouth furrowed into a deep, wrinkled frown and began to quiver. 

Crawford hesitated, then leaned forward to catch his straw in his mouth. The milkshake was indulgently rich and bone-chillingly cold. He got the impression of drinking liquid velvet. The vanilla inched down his throat and left his mouth coated with sugar and cream. ‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘She better hurry up and drink that, or I’m going to!’ Then he stopped himself. ‘She has to drink that. Like, HAS to.’ He decided to slow himself down, because in one large gulp had polished off 20a fifth of his drink. Dani’s remained untouched. 

“Dani?” He probed. She continued to stare at her milkshake with poison in her eyes. “Wanna have a drink?” Deep from her throat came a noise that started like a cry, but curdled into a menacing growl. The hair on the back of Corey’s neck stood up. The eating disorder had reverted her into an animal. Even her fists were clenched so hard that the blood had been squeezed out, leaving them blanched.

Jennifer discreetly waved her hand in an attempt to get Corey’s attention. He stood up from his stool slowly, trying not to further disturb Dani, who was clearly trying to hold back a dam of tears. “We’ve given her the usual 15 minutes to get in the right mindset,” she said. Corey nodded resolutely. “Now is the time that we start encouraging her.”

The mother walked over to her daughter with a benevolent ferocity and began to stroke her straw-like hair. Dani violently shook her off. Jennifer was taken aback, and Harry glided to his wife’s side and wrapped her in a patriarchal embrace. He gave the goaltender a nod.

Corey tried again and inched the glass over to the girl. The sound of its soft sliding over the granite countertop was nails on a chalkboard to her, so she covered her ears with hands like a vice. The goalie even stirred the straw around to mix the shake, as it had begun to settle. Dani’s hand had crawled reluctantly and stiffly out of her lap to hang in front of the glass. Corey handed her the straw. The moment the plastic grazed her fingertips, she began to bawl. Long, drawn out, funereal howls. 

“Please don’t make me do this,” she blubbered. Her eyes glided from Corey, to her mom, to her dad, and back to Corey. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying with her. She was broken, and he seriously doubted if he had the ability to fix her.


	6. Anna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dani finishes her endeavor as the nightmare draws to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough day, but this helped. Even though I didn't expect it to.
> 
> Thank you dearly for all the support you guys leave on this work, and my others. That's the best part of the AO3 experience! 
> 
> Stay strong everybody, and LET'S GO PENS!

Corey stretched out a hand as if offering a dog treat to a rabid wolf. Tentatively, he began to rub large, slow circles across the girls back. He created a rhythm to match the pace of her ragged, yet steady respirations. Only the harsh peaks of her vertebrae upset the cold surface of her jersey. 

While continuing to rub her back, ever so gently, Corey reached out his free hand to move the straw back to the girl’s lips. He hoped that he had distracted her, or at least calmed her, enough to take a sip. But her mouth did not part an inch: merely quivered with suppressed sobs. 

Gritting his teeth against his own straw, Crawford sipped a long draw from his shake and drained a solid amount. It crawled down his throat and into his stomach with indulgent protest, spreading chills across his nerves. Only about a third of the rich liquid remained. 

Dani’s was full. 

“Dani,” her mom cooed, running long fingers through her daughter’s coarse hair. “Let’s drink some now, okay?” Both her and her daughter’s eyes settled upon the drink that had held their attention for the last tense hour. 

Harry gave a nod, so slow and deliberate that it broke the goaltender’s heart. Dani gave one last look at all three of them, part resentment, part contrition, and locked her lips around the straw. 

She took three large gulps of milkshake and resurfaced, gasping for air. Her breaths came in quick, sharp coups that shook her body. Even when she held her breath in a futile attempt to calm herself, her rigid muscles twitched. 

Closing her eyes and pursing her lips, coated with milk, she began to turn the color of her drink. As the shake made its way down her throat, so did all the blood in her body. 

She was so pale that Corey almost didn’t notice the thin rivulet of fluid leaking from her mouth. She was spitting the shake back up, stomach contracting visibly under her jersey. 

Jennifer noticed first and ran to get the dishrag next to the sink. Instead, Corey waved her back and wiped at the corner of Dani’s mouth with his sleeve. Her eyes fell in shame, but Corey drew them back up again. 

His locked jaw said no, but his deep eyes added “please.”

With silent tears creeping down her face, she swallowed her first gulp of the shake. 

Harry moved next to his wife and wrapped her in a tight embrace. Tears had rendered the white of both sets of eyes a hazy pink. While they were busy watching their child, Corey studied every slope of their faces. Dani did not look like either of them; instead, she was a perfect blend of the man and the woman. Once he noticed, it was impossible to put out of his mind. 

Suddenly, a strange look washed over Jennifer’s face. She appeared stony, gray and shifted her position. Corey looked at her, but the mother’s eyes were focused on her daughter. Fear mixed with confusion in his gut. 

“Dani,” Jennifer said, her voice stressed with sad sternness. “Hands on the table.” With a venomous glare, the girl did as she was told. When she raised her hands, the goalie recoiled when he saw patches of blood all around her fingers and palms. Underneath the counter, Dani had been digging her fingernails into her hands and peeling away her cuticles until she had crusty maroon splotches all over her skin. 

The dairy concoction was sitting uneasily in Crow’s stomach and the sight of her mangled fingers made it give a dangerous lurch. He busied himself by offering the girl the straw again. This time, she took it without any further coercion. The briefest flash of relief eclipsed on Harry’s face. 

The cameraman shifted uneasily, tucked away next to the pantry door. Everybody had forgotten that he was even there, with how he blended in to the muted shadows in the hallway. The camera’s red light was on, signaling that it was intently drinking in every last frame of Dani’s struggle. 

“This was a terrible idea,” Corey thought. Even though the brittle tension around Dani and her family seemed to have softened, an unspoken heaviness had set in. How late was too late? As in, too late to pull the plug on this sickening PR stunt and let this family go back to its Tolstoy* isolation? To pretend this never happened?

But Q’s words kept echoing in his goaltender’s head. Did it matter if the cameras were there? “No,” Corey answered himself. “It really doesn’t, because regardless, this girl is sick and I’m here to help her. That’s my job: to save things. The film crew just happens to be here.” Coincidence. Yes, that was the most comforting explanation.

Now, about ninety minutes had crawled by. Crow decided to bite the bullet and drained the remainder of his drink. The straw slurped pleasantly when he sucked up the small vanilla bean granules at the bottom of the glass. His friend looked at him with a milky smile and giggled. Harry and Jennifer did too, trying to encourage the steady lightening of the situation. And it must have worked. 

Just then, Dani leaned forward and took a healthy sip of her drink. Her parents were all but applauding, for they had not prompted her in any way. She had drunk her shake without any badgering from them or their goalie guest. Crow found himself smiling as well. Even though Dani looked utterly crushed, she soldiered on and resigned herself to the caloric fate. 

By now, the drink was about 80% finished. Dani’s stomach was a slight slope under her jersey. She squirmed in discomfort over the thick weight in her belly as well as her appearance. Her starved and deprived organs were stretched to their limits. Coreys’, on the other hand, were absolutely fine. Room for more, even. He is a 200-pound professional hockey player, after all. 

Harry stepped over to his little girl and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Hey, sweetie,” he breathed, patting her on the shoulder. 

“You did a great job,” Jennifer added. Corey put on a massive smile and nodded. Despite his best efforts to appear earnest, which he was, he still looked completely cartoonish. 

“How about we finish that in one go, eh?” Harry suggested as if it were nothing. This prompted vines of fear and betrayal to sprout across the girl’s waifish face. But they did not last as she gave a curt nod and diligently wrapped her lips around the straw. With one mighty inhale, the liquid disappeared into her mouth and down her throat.

There was a collective sigh, from even the cameraman. A great weight had been lifted off of their shoulders, especially Danis’. But still, her eyes were sunken and her face swollen from the tears, which mixed with the shake spit left in the corner of her mouth. 

Corey cupped her chin in his massive hand and guided her head to look him in the eyes. They formed a bridge that exchanged untold sentiment: relief being the most prominent, accomplishment a close second. But bitter accomplishment, outlined with guilt. 

Corey reached over to the girl with his other hand and gave her a massive bear hug. She leaned into the rough fabric of his jersey and was lost. Harry and Jennifer padded forward and put their arms around their daughter as well. Corey felt everybody’s hearts’ erratic beating and sharp breaths as they cried. Silently. 

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina


	7. God Bless You, Mr. Crawford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corey leaves, and the night comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who has a tumblr: http://yeahscienceao3.tumblr.com
> 
> I am actively asking for hockey RPF prompts to fill. Send me a PM!
> 
> Also, I really want to do a collaboration with someone. Maybe a sloppy, shippy kind of thing or a 5+1 format? Leave a comment :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Corey heard a shrill beep; the cameraman had turned off his device. The spectacle was over, the curtains closing, all over now.

 

So where was… everything? Relief? Accomplishment? There was nothing. Crow’s stomach was full, but his heart was empty. Inside his arms, Dani shuddered. Her parents did too. They pulled away and Crawford wanted to as well; however, her bony arms were a vice around his thick, muscular neck.

 

“I wish I could thank you,” she whispered. Defeat danced on the tip of her tongue. “But it won’t let me.” _It. As in… her eating disorder?_ The thought made him feel like he had had snow from a skate sprayed in his face. Instead, he just gave her a friendly squeeze. _Am I hugging her, or_ it _?_

So unsettled by the whole affair, he jumped when the camera guy tapped him on the shoulder. There was shock in his eyes too. But his mouth formed the words, “Ready to go?”

 

When sweet relief poured into his veins, followed by guilt that turned his face red. Corey got to walk away. Dani had to live with this. For however long it took for the disease to run its course. He hoped that he had shortened that time, as much as possible. There was too much uncertainty to allow his optimism to take over. At least, after a maximum of triple overtime, the game was over. On to the next one.

 

Harry could sense that the visitors were withdrawing. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot and sent sideways glances at his wife. Sure enough, they were returned. Social constructs told them to just let the evening take its course. After all, they had spent close to three hours sitting around a table watching a girl drink a milkshake.

 

Taking the adults’ cues, Dani stood up from her seat and took the two milky glasses to the sink. Harry and Jennifer approached the goaltender and spoke in hushed tones.

 

“Corey,” Jennifer mewled. “I can’t thank you enough. This means so much to her, and to us, of course. We’ve tried everything, really-“

 

The goaltender held up a single finger. “I believe you,” he hummed. “The fact that you went out and did all of this-” he gestured around. “Just goes to show how much Dani means to you. Simply because you alone couldn’t cure her doesn’t make you bad parents. I think it makes you the best parents, because you didn’t let that stop you.”

 

By now, both Harry and his wife were sobbing. Both were wiping away tears and had their hands over their mouths to stifle their cries, lest their daughter hear and see their turmoil. Crawford felt absolutely sick, mind and body. Emotions and high-calorie snacks do not mesh well together.

 

The sound of the flowing tap tapered off and Dani padded over to her family. Her face had two faint stripes of white where her salty tears had dried. Hands in her pockets, Dani added her two cents.

 

“I, uh,” she began. Everyone forgave her aphasia. She was the ‘1st Star of the Game,’ so to speak. Discreetly, but not silently, the cameraman started filming. “Man, I had something planned and everything. Generic, yet sincere, laughter. “Mr. Crawford, you really are my hero. I could’ve been just another submission, another problem, and eventually, another statistic. You and your organization… just, thank you.” Those words were enough, but Dani had more. “But nobody, especially me, would be here if not for the tireless efforts of my parents.”

 

For the first time that night, Corey Crawford produced a single tear. Solid, unwavering, falling down his cheek and landing with a splash audible in the tense air.

 

“You’re the reason that I keep going.” Pause. “And the hope of another Stanley Cup.” She gave Corey a comically expectant look and he choked out a half-cry, half-laugh, as did her parents.

 

The camera’s miniscule eyeball was drinking this all up. But in spite of it, nobody looked, noticed, acknowledged it. It was just a spirit, an unnoticeable presence.

 

“For all these months, I’ve lived in fear of the next day. Because I know there is a real possibility that it might be my last.” Her eyebrows lowered at the blanched faces of her parents. “I mean, it could. They say not to live in the past, but I think that is exactly what’s gonna keep me going into the future.”

 

There were more words. Yes, there were more, but they would never be spoken. They were the words that you think, but spend the rest of your life wondering what would’ve happened if you had said them. These words in particular were not said because there was an umpteenth hug. The second to last of the night.

 

The last was in a few minutes.

 

Everybody was gravitating to the door. You know the feeling- it’s as if the front door, or social constructs themselves, pull you in. Starting with your neck, as you lean in to communicate your intent to depart. Then your hips as you cock them out. All the way down to your feet as you take the first step out.

 

Nobody really wanted Corey to leave, not even Corey himself. So why _would_ he leave? I guess, because he had to.

 

The camera guy was the first to exit, but the last to leave. He stepped out on the porch to film the departure. The muddy porch lights cast a sickly yellow glow on everybody’s skin.

 

Handshake from Harry. Kiss on the cheek from Jennifer. And when Dani came in for the aforementioned final hug, Corey lifted her. She was like a bird, all bones and feathers. This was easy: he’d lifted more than twice her weight in the gym before.

 

He gave her a big kiss right on the cheek. She giggled like a schoolgirl. Understandable, with her being a schoolgirl. When he set her back down on the porch, she latched herself around his midsection. Corey patted her head. She felt warm against his stomach.

 

She turned her head to look up at the man. “You make 30 saves a night,” she sang. “This was your best one yet.”

 

Corey had to leave first, so the camera could get a parting shot of him walking away form the house and casting forlorn looks over his shoulder. The thick navy of the evening sky tinted his sweater a royal purple.

 

The car was waiting for them. The headlights blinded Corey so that Dani and her family appeared as silhouettes on his vision. The soft thump of the car door officiated the end of the evening. With a little lurch, the car backed out of the driveway.

 

Under the arms of both her parents, Dani waved as her hero hockeyer drove away.

 

He wanted to wave, but the weight in his arms allowed only a faint wiggling of his fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading. I will post the next installment again soon, if I am strong enough. 
> 
> If you or someone you know is struggling with a mental illness, I encourage you to be an advocate and seek help. There is no shame in being sick. You deserve all the help you need.
> 
> Please be respectful in the comments.


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